There are scars on her arm, still. Sometimes she reaches down to idly run her finger over them when she thinks Haruka isn't looking. The skin is a little rougher where the daimon struck.
She is afraid to die. She has always been afraid to die. Sometimes, even when Haruka holds her through the night, she lays awake and thinks of what the end could be like. She can't seem to shake the idea that death is nothing but a ceasing. That it will be just like how it was before she was born. When she has those thoughts during the day, it is easy for her to turn to her violin and play something melancholy that will make Haruka sit down and listen and tell her how beautiful it is. It is easy for her to turn to her violin and drown herself in her music and forget.
During the night she can't seem to shake the feeling of abject terror that crawls inside of her and eats away at her soul. A void that opens into nothing. Her own death watches her.
It is difficult to shake the feeling entirely. Sometimes, when they make love, she wonders if anyone will remember that she existed in three hundred years. Only once has the faraway look in her eyes made Haruka stop with her breast and look up at her and say, "Oi. Michiru. What's wrong?"
She snaps back to reality. "N-nothing. I zoned out for a second," she says, fearful of sharing the terror-horror-desperation that comes with wanting to live and knowing you will die. "I'm sorry, Haruka. I know I've been going off into my own little world a lot recently." And she leans forward and kisses her partner and death is forgotten for a moment.
The feeling returns, though, once Haruka falls asleep afterward. The terror, the fear, the panic. She curls into the fetal position. She looks at her shaking hands.
"I have to kill three people," she murmurs to herself. She imagines blood covering her fingers, dark and wet and warm. The scars on her arm itch.
She can't help but feel like a hypocrite.
The void eats into her.